Blind Justice

by Ethan Cross

  He stood there a moment, breathing heavily and debating on whether to end Pike’s life. Finally, he said in a whisper, “Never disrespect me or speak vulgarities in the presence of my mother again. Tell me you understand.”

  Pike’s eyes were hard. “I understand.”

  The old woman whimpered and rolled away from them. Her gaunt form trembled beneath the blankets. Almeida leaned down and embraced her. “It’s okay, Mama. Soon I’ll have the formula to a drug that could heal your mind. Won’t that be wonderful?”

  She rambled something incoherent in Spanish and then drifted off again into a world that he could not see.

  “Unlike some people in our line of work, I’ve always maintained a code of honor,” Almeida said. “There were certain lines that I would not cross. But the more this situation blows up out of control, the more my boundaries are being tested. I never wanted it to go this far, but I’m afraid that it’s time to take things to the next level with Deacon Munroe and Jonas Black. It’s time to hit them at their most vulnerable spot. To exploit their weaknesses and their passions.”

  Almeida closed his eyes and hated himself as he said, “Find me their families.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

  The ladies rode in the cargo area with Corrigan while Munroe and Black occupied the cab. The police questioned them at two separate checkpoints, but Black casually explained that he was helping his blind cousin move to a new house in Baltimore. Black’s skills at deception and quick thinking impressed Munroe. The key in such interactions was the level of detail provided. Give up too much information, and the officers would think you were nervous and had something to hide. Embellish too little, and they would think that you were holding back with malicious intent. None of the officers bothered to inspect the cargo area, and the group easily passed through the net that local law enforcement had cast.

  Midway through Ohio, Munroe decided that they had come far enough, and it was time to have a word with their prisoner. “Find an out of the way motel. Somewhere that won’t notice a cash payment.”

  Black, who had been quiet for most of the drive, said, “You think Corrigan will finally be able to tell us the whole story?”

  “I doubt it, but hopefully, we’ll get a few more pieces to the puzzle.”

  Munroe felt the Yukon glide off the interstate and up an exit ramp. But then Black abruptly asked, “How did you lose your sight?”

  The question jolted Munroe. It wasn’t one that he had expected and had found that most people were too polite to ask or simply didn’t care. “I suffered a blow to the head that damaged the occipital cortex region of my brain and caused total blindness.”

  “But how did you receive the blow?”

  Munroe avoided the question and turned the inquiry around on Black. “Why do you ask? Has someone been telling stories?”

  Black massaged the steering wheel, the leather creaking beneath his grip, and Munroe guessed the big man was searching the roadway for a motel. Eventually, Black said, “When we were at the Pentagon, I visited the 911 Memorial. I saw your name on the list of Defense of Freedom medal winners. You’re a hero.”

  “Don’t you ever say that again. A lot of heroes were born from fire that day. I wasn’t one of them.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

  A beautiful Tuesday morning in September. Temperatures in the sixties. Sun shining brightly. The previous night a booming thunderstorm ripped through DC, but that morning the storm had passed. Deacon Munroe enjoyed the drive to work that day. He rolled down the windows, turned off the radio, and simply watched the cool breeze make the trees come alive as he sat in traffic along the George Washington Memorial Parkway.

  He loved DC. It was his city, and every city had a certain rhythm, an energy. New York felt fast-paced and alive with perpetual motion. The energy there made a person want to stay up all night just to drink it all in. DC maintained a more laid back atmosphere—culture, elegance, power, aristocracy. It suited Deacon Munroe’s personality.

  The halls of the Pentagon had also come alive that morning with a different kind of energy. Dread and fear permeated the air. He checked his watch. 9:30 a.m. Forty-five minutes earlier, the first plane struck the North Tower of the World Trade Center. Fifteen minutes later, another plane attacked the South Tower in what was already being called the worst terrorist attack America had ever suffered. Some people sat within their offices watching the mayhem unfold. Others jogged through the halls on their way to important meetings, those dealing with the blowback from the attacks. Then there were some, like Deacon Munroe, who decided that the best way they could fight back against the terrorists was to simply keep working.

  The Navy Operations Center lay at his back. He had just inquired there about a man named Commander Ed Webb. Certain questions had arose regarding Commander Webb’s complicity in a recent bribery scandal involving prototype naval equipment. The research company developing the equipment had allegedly paid off certain naval personnel to ensure that their project passed inspection.

  Munroe had just resigned himself to abandon the pursuit of Webb for the day, when he saw the Commander coming down the busy hallway ahead of him among a group of other officers. He flashed his credentials at the approaching group and said, “Commander Webb, I have a few questions for you.”

  The Commander’s friends eyed him strangely and moved off down the hallway. The big black man stood ramrod straight, impeccably groomed, his face and head closely shaved. Webb said, “Are you kidding me? With all that’s happening today, you want to question me about some stupid misunderstanding.”

  “My heart goes out to all those involved in the attacks today in New York, but the world keeps turning. I have a job to do, Commander. Same as you.”

  “My job is to help protect this country. Yours is to harass people like me. Let’s get that straight.”

  Munroe smiled. “Okay, since we’re getting things straight. My job is to hunt down men and women like you when they decide to stop being protectors and soldiers and decide to become criminals and thieves. If that’s you, then I’ll burn you down. And you will answer my questions despite whether you agree with my timing. I’m not here to—”

  The explosion struck. Bright light blinded Munroe, encompassing everything. His feet lifted from the floor, and then he slammed back down to his knees. The shock wave tossed him against the wall and stole the air from his lungs. Searing heat filled the corridor. Black smoke. Then white smoke. He tried to stand, but a sharp pain shot through his leg. The limb couldn’t withstand any pressure or weight. He couldn’t see anything through the thick cloud of noxious fumes that burned his lungs and made him want to be sick. The sprinkler system activated and pelted him with cold rain.

  A man appeared through the smoke, coming from the direction of the Navy Operations Center. Munroe tried to focus through the haze, but his vision had to be deceiving him. The man reached out a hand and said, “Come on!”

  But Munroe hesitated.

  The Navy officer’s arm and chest had been melted by the fire. The man’s blackened face looked down at him, the whites of his eyes seemed to glow against the darkness. Munroe could smell the charred flesh. Adrenaline and shock must have kept the officer from feeling the pain since saving Munroe seemed more a concern to the brave soldier than his own injuries or safety.

  Munroe took the burned hand, and the officer pulled him to his feet.

  Then a piece of the wall behind them collapsed.

  Munroe felt a hard blow to the back of his head as the impact shoved him forward.

  The lights went out and never came back on.

  From that point forward, scattered voices and strange sounds were all he could remember, but nothing coherent. Just jumbled sensations of pain and fear and confusion.

  ~~*~~

  When he woke, Deacon Munroe found himself in a bed at George Washington Hospital. He asked about the man who had sa
ved his life, but he didn’t have a name for the brave naval officer. If the burned man hadn’t pulled him to his feet, Munroe realized that he would have been crushed by the falling debris instead of being thrown to safety.

  The doctors told him that he had almost died from jet fuel in his lungs and was lucky to be alive. But he still couldn’t see. His eyes were open, but the world was gone. After a few days of observation, his doctor stood by his bedside and told him that the damage to his brain could not be repaired and he would never see again.

  He remembered Beth’s fingers wrapping around his and squeezing tightly as he lied there in shock and denial and began his daily journey through the five stages of grief. “It’ll be okay, Deac. I’ll always be there for you. We’ll get through this.”

  Not long after that day, he lost her as well.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

  After finishing his story, Munroe listened to the changing hums of the roadway and the creaks and rattles of the truck for a moment before adding, “I ended up finding out that the man who helped me was the same man I was there to see. Commander Webb. Apparently, as I was rolling around on the floor in confusion, Webb ran back and tried to save some of his friends, that’s when he got burned. Then, even in that state, he tried to save a man who was there investigating him on criminal bribery charges while the rest of the world fell down around us. If he hadn’t stopped to help me, he would have made it out alive. I’m not saying I blame myself for his death. It’s the terrorist’s fault, not mine. I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. But I didn’t deserve that medal, and I’m no hero.”

  Silence settled over the cab of the truck, and Munroe could only guess at Black’s reaction. The truck shifted to a lower gear, bumped up a curb, slowed, and then stopped altogether.

  “We’re here.” Black shut off the engine and said, “You were there at the Pentagon that day doing your job to support your country. As you were fighting that battle, a group of cowards attacked you, killed a bunch of innocent people, and robbed you of your eyesight. You gave up quite a bit of yourself in service to this nation, and then even after all that, you chose to keep going back to work everyday and fighting, despite what they stole from you. It sounds pretty heroic to me.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTY

  After letting the women and Corrigan out through the cargo area’s side door, the group piled through the bright red door of another cheap motel room. The Best Value Inn sat two miles from I-70 near Dayton, OH and cost less than a hundred bucks a night for two rooms and four beds. More important, the neighborhood seemed the type where people didn’t ask many questions and minded their own business.

  As Black helped Corrigan down from the back of the truck, the eyes of his former team leader lit up at the sight of a friendly face. “Jonas Black. They told me you were here, but I almost didn’t believe it. From what I heard, you weren’t in much better shape than me.”

  “Yeah, ain’t we a pair.”

  Corrigan slapped him on the back and said, “It’s good to see you.”

  “You too, but maybe you should wait to say that until you hear why they got me out of prison in the first place.”

  “I figured as much. They thought that I might talk to you. Well, don’t worry about it. This has gone far enough. I don’t need any convincing.”

  Black led Corrigan into the motel room where the others had arranged the furniture to have a talk with the man whom they had worked so hard to rescue. The scent of stale cigarette smoke hung in the air. Corrigan sat down in a cheap gray chair beside a small table and looked at each of his four companions in turn before saying, “Where do you want me to start?”

  Munroe didn’t hesitate. “Fort Meade.”

  “I’m sure you know the cover story about a cultural relations class, but the truth is that they approached men and women from all the different branches about participating in a testing program for a new drug called Focus. Not just Spec Ops either. Guys from logistics and military intelligence as well. It paid quadruple hazard pay, but it was so classified that you could never talk about it with anyone. I thought it was going to be some new type of ‘go pill’ like the military’s been handing out for years.”

  Annabelle said, “What do you mean? What are go pills?”

  Standing by the window and staring out with cautious glances, Black said, “Military’s been shoving pills filled with amphetamines down our throats since Vietnam, probably before that. Everything from Dexedrine for the boys squaring off against the Viet Cong to Modafinil and ampakines in more modern times. But you run into a bunch of problems with that crap. What goes up sometimes has a hard time coming down. So then you have to take something like Binoctal or some other barbiturate to help you sleep. Rinse and repeat. Up and down. Up and down. It keeps you alert, but also puts you on edge. You’re ready to snap.”

  Corrigan nodded. “We thought it was just the next gen amphetamine. A step up from Modafinil. But it was a lot more than that. Black and I and the others from the unit had taken Modafinil on long missions, and like Black said, I knew what that felt like. It helped you stay alert and awake, but you still weren’t at one hundred percent, and it had its side effects. This drug, Focus, was a whole other ballgame. Quicker reaction times. More energy. Better concentration. It made you feel like you were operating above one hundred percent. My thoughts became clearer and more precise. At first, I thought it was just my own perception that the drug altered. Like a scientist thinking that they can come up with their best ideas on acid, or a kid on PCP thinking they can fly. But the researchers conducted all manner of tests, the same kinds of things we would do in training or assessments, and across the board, we posted numbers well beyond peak performance.”

  “Where were these tests conducted? Someone would have noticed at Fort Meade,” Munroe said.

  “They housed us at Meade, but for the tests, they loaded us into a truck and took us to a facility that didn’t look military. Somewhere out among the trees. I don’t know exactly where.”

  “How far?”

  “I’m not sure. Probably a half hour. Forty minutes.”

  “So, if this drug is so great, where did everything go wrong?”

  “They had us taking the drug in cycles. Testing how long we could stay on it, upping dosages, tweaking formulas. We weren’t supposed to be around anyone, in case we had any problems with the drug.”

  Corrigan’s eyes filled with tears, and he continued in a trembling voice. “But it was my daughter’s birthday, and I had missed so many already. The tests had all been going well. No one had displayed any dangerous side effects. And so I bribed one of the COs to let me travel back to Pendleton for the weekend. Apparently, they had changed the formula in the latest batch, the most aggressive version of the drug yet. It had some pretty major problems. I was told later that it shuts down the rational side of your brain and stimulates the part responsible for anger. It left whoever took it with only the most basic fight or flight instincts. All I remember from that night was feeling like I had the flu for a few minutes and then nothing. Just rage and fear. I woke up covered in blood.”

  Katherine leaned forward and said, “But why let the military use you as a scapegoat? You could have told the whole world about the drug and that what happened wasn’t your fault. You might have still done some time, but definitely not murder one.”

  The former Sergeant sat straighter and wiped the tears from his eyes. His eyelids lowered, and his breathing changed. “Because I didn’t want to cause a scandal for the military or expose a top secret project. I’m a soldier and—”

  “You’re lying,” Black said abruptly. “What’s the real reason?”

  Looking as if he’d been slapped, it took Corrigan a moment to recover. When he did, he looked Black straight in the eyes and said, “I didn’t tell anyone because it was my fault. I insisted on going to my daughter’s party even against the recommendations of the researchers. I wa
s reckless. Other members of the program had similar reactions, but they were contained on base and under observation. No one was seriously injured. My family is dead because of my stupidity and irresponsibility. I deserve to be on death row.”

  The air conditioner hummed next to the window. A shower in a neighboring room hissed out a steady drone of white noise. A car honked in the distance. Beyond those background noises, a penetrating silence swallowed the room. Everyone seemed to be digesting all the new information. Black could tell that Katherine and Annabelle wanted to comfort Corrigan in some way but had no clue how to do so.

  Then Munroe’s voice cut through the silence. “This doesn’t add up.”

  “I’m telling you the truth,” Corrigan said defensively.

  “That’s not what I mean. If you accepted your fate and the military swept all this under the rug, then why is everything coming to a head now? Why murder General Easton and Wyatt Randall and Gerald and whoever else?”

  “What about the money from the cartel?” Annabelle asked.

  “Maybe evidence of the cartel connection could be enough, but it still doesn’t seem right. Someone who controlled a drug like this shouldn’t have a problem getting the bureaucrats to look the other way on that.”

  Corrigan said, “The military was more than happy to cover everything up and move forward with their new super drug. Think of the tactical advantage to any country that could supply their troops with Focus. Your soldiers could instantly outperform everyone else. The problem is that Wyatt Randall discovered that Brendan Lennix didn’t just plan to make billions off the new drug. The Castillo Cartel, who had bailed Lennix out of bankruptcy, forced Lennix to use the formula for the bad batch of the drug to create a chemical weapon that could be released as an aerosol. That’s the evidence that Randall took to General Easton and why the General came to see me.”